


pulse

by Kiseia



Category: Batman - All Media Types, DCU, DCU (Comics), Green Lantern - All Media Types
Genre: Age Difference, Anal Sex, Begging, Bruce and his dumb feelings, Dirty Talk, Hand Jobs, Kyle Rayner is a menace, M/M, Masturbation, White Lantern Kyle Rayner, creative use of lantern rings, sugar daddy au but it's not really pertinent here
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-06-26
Updated: 2020-06-29
Packaged: 2021-03-04 02:00:30
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 5,110
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24935680
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Kiseia/pseuds/Kiseia
Summary: Wayne Manor is the first place Kyle visits when he comes back to Earth.
Relationships: Kyle Rayner/Bruce Wayne
Comments: 29
Kudos: 39





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> If you're wondering about context, the context is [here.](https://kiseiakhun.tumblr.com/tagged/daddies%20r%20us)
> 
> Yeeeeeeah I. I don't know either. Just take it, okay??

"I just," Kyle says, stumbling over his words. "I just – I wanted – I wanted to be ready." He swallows, throat bobbing over the collar of his shirt. "Just in case. I-"

"Stop," Brue says, and Kyle clicks his mouth shut, staring down from where he's hovering over Bruce's body. His hair is messy already, fluffy and mussed from where he must've been running his fingers through it while he waited. Lips soft and pink, not the raw-bitten red that Bruce would've expected them to be, after… but then again, it's not surprising. Kyle should be used to the sensation by now, and besides, it's not like Bruce was the first one to touch him.

"How long," he asks, finger skating down over Kyle's crack, just barely grazing over the swollen rim. Kyle shudders, pushing into his touch, and Bruce pulls his fingers back, resting them over the curve of his ass. "How long?" Bruce prompts again, when Kyle only blinks dazedly down at him, mouth parting slightly to show his white teeth, that plush tongue resting inside his hot mouth.

"Since…" he shudders again. "I don't know. An hour? Less than an hour? It's not. I didn't really-" Bruce reaches over, nudging the base of the plug that's sticking out of him, and Kyle makes this soft noise, pushing back into his touch. "Bruce…"

His voice isn't shaking, not yet, but there's a barely-there waver hiding behind it, a tremble resting in the way his lashes fall over his eyes. Kyle smells like stardust, like the sharp ozone scent of the upper atmosphere, deeper than night and brighter than moonbeams cutting through a cloudy sky. Smells like power, rumpled shirt and faded jeans slouching low over his narrow hips, and there's light in his eyes, spreading beneath his iris and under his skin, pulsing to the surface in low, diffuse shards that could be just a flicker of his imagination.

Bruce isn't entirely convinced that it's not. That it isn't his mind warning him away, reminding him of what lies beneath his hands. Kyle seems to forget, sometimes, how truly powerful he is, but Bruce never can. Bruce looks at him and sees him glowing, body haloed in faint light, the after-image of stars hiding in the strands of his dark hair. At once he seems too distant to touch and so close that it hurts, blurring before his vision like words on a book pressed right to the tip of his nose. So real that Bruce can't stand it at times, because around him, everything else seems to fade into the background.

Again he nudges the plug, more deliberately this time, and Kyle's eyes fall shut, so trusting, so confident in his good intentions. Again, and the breathy noise that Kyle makes feels like it shoots right through him, hot and heavy like a molten weight settling in his gut.

"You know you don't have to," Bruce says, even as he's grabbing the base and twisting, twisting a low gasp right out of Kyle.

"Don't have to what?" His voice sounds dazed, but his eyes are clear when he opens them, looking right at Bruce.

Bruce wants to cover them. Wants to roll them over, press Kyle's face into the mattress so he won't have to see them, pick out the hidden colours flashing in their depths. The thing is that Bruce is trained to notice detail; he can't _not_ look, not when it's right in front of him. Pick through every peculiarity, every shift of movement and tuck them into the back of his mind to analyze and dissect. Even when he doesn't want to. Even when he shouldn't, and he _knows_ he shouldn't, no matter how adamant Kyle seems about pursuing him.

Because Kyle is different. Kyle burns so good that Bruce wants to plunge his hands in him, feel at every soft crease and see what it'll take to bring him down to his level. And he – he can't allow himself. Can't dwell on those thoughts.

But it's so _hard_ when Kyle is hovering above him like this, soft and mussed and open.

"This," he murmurs, twisting the plug again, and Kyle moans when Bruce starts pulling it out, just barely, before letting go of the base and letting it slide back into his body. "Any of this. Kyle-"

"Want to," Kyle breathes. His head dips down, breath grazing so close to Bruce's mouth. "I want to. Fuck, Bruce, it's been forever, just let me-" he shifts back, grinding against his hand, and Bruce takes the hint, grabbing the plug and twisting it again, teasing him with it, pulling it out just barely and then letting it slip back in. "Just touch me." And there's a moan riding on his voice, desperation twisting beneath his words that feel like it's tugging at him, tugging at Bruce, making him helpless to Kyle's command. "Just touch me, please, you have no idea-"

"What?" Bruce asks when Kyle cuts off, pressing his mouth to Bruce's sweater in a soft, heated kiss, and it feels too hot all of a sudden, constricting, the heat from Kyle's mouth pressing through the soft fabric and sinking right into his blood. "Talk to me, Kyle."

His voice dips slightly into the tone of command he uses during League meetings, and Kyle shivers above him, a moan breaking out of his mouth. "It's been two weeks," he breathes, mouthing up his sweater to his jaw, pulling down the long hem to mouth at a silvery scar running down his neck. "It's been forever, Bruce, come _on."_

"Did you miss me?" Bruce can't help but tease, slowing down his ministrations, and Kyle groans in frustration half at his words, at his actions – or _inaction –_ as he pushes back, spine pulling in a perfectly obscene arc as he tries to fuck itself on the plug that Bruce is holding in place, perfectly still.

"Yes," he stresses. _"Yes._ Of course I missed you, you stupid – you couldn't tell by the way I came here first after I just got back? I used the front door, even, Alfred let me in, and I swear he was judging me-"

"Shh," Bruce starts, free hand petting up his back, and Kyle just makes this noise – this breathy half-laugh, half-moan with its edges frayed and desperate, hitting Bruce like a lightning strike down to his core.

"Of course I missed you," Kyle breathes right against his jaw. "I couldn't stop thinking about you, Bruce. I'll be sitting in a war council half a cluster away, and all I can think about is the way your cock tastes when I-"

Bruce is kissing him before he's consciously aware of it, grabbing his neck and pulling him in. Kyle makes this shocked noise, and moans when Bruce rolls them over, pinning his lean body beneath his larger bulk. Still while kissing him, plunging his tongue into his mouth, and Kyle opens up so easily for him, clawing at his chest and pulling him in by his sweater, his breaths huffing hot and heavy against his cheek.

Already his skin is so hot, burning beneath his touch like a miniature sun as Bruce slides his hand up his thigh, finding the hem of his jeans and boxers and tugging them up and over his knees. Kyle helps, kicking them the rest of the way off, and Bruce doesn't wait for him to finish before he's finding his cock, wrapping his hand around all that heated skin.

He feels even hotter here. Feels like he's holding fire in his palm as Kyle lets out a startled moan and bucks into his grip, slippery hot skin easily sliding over his own. He's so wet already, cock leaking a steady stream onto his belly that Bruce catches with his fingers, smoothing over the thin, delicate skin throbbing in his hand. Kyle breaks away, gasping against the side of his mouth, and Bruce takes his chance to kiss down his jaw, his neck, nudging his head back to lick over his Adam's apple.

"Bruce," Kyle moans, and his name sounds so sweet falling out of his mouth. "I – oh God, Bruce, I'm-"

"It's okay," Bruce speaks against his skin, and he barely recognizes his voice right now, the way it rasps out of his throat like he's not the one who's doing the touching.

"Missed you so much," Kyle mumbles, tilting his head like he's hungry for his lips again. "M-missed you, couldn't stop touching myself thinking of you-"

Bruce growls, his hand moving faster over Kyle.

"—not the same when you're not there, tried to fuck myself but-"

"Kyle," Bruce growls.

"—it's not the _same,"_ he whines. "Your cock is just – oh, fuck," and he lets out another one of those sweet, low whines, arching into Bruce's hand like he's desperate for it, like it's the only thing that matters. "God, Bruce, it's so good. Can you – fuck me, Bruce, fuck me, God, da-"

Bruce covers his mouth before he can finish, his hand big enough to swallow up the entirety of his lower face, and Kyle's moan licks through his skin, feeling like it's setting his insides on fire. He's panting in earnest now, breath rushing out in sharp puffs over his fingers, and his eyes are so dark, dark and swallowed up in a hazy mire before they close. Bruce pretends that the flash he sees in them is red, pretends that the flush on his cheeks is just from the exertion. Pretends that he can't see the lines of fatigue brimming from his eyes, even in the low light, the hollows beneath making him seem like something ghastly, ethereal.

Pretends that he isn't scared of losing him as he pulls Kyle to a finish, muffling his shout against his hand and pressing it back into his mouth. Kyle comes in low pulses all over his shirt, fucking into the tight circle of Bruce's fist, and keeps at it even when his moans turn to high whines like he's desperate for every ounce of pleasure, every bit of good that can be milked out of this moment.

Bruce wonders when he became a source of relief, a reprieve from the darker things lurking at the edges of his life. Wonders if it says something about him, or about the grief that Kyle goes through outside his grasp.

It's not that he didn't care before. It's just—

It's just that it didn't matter as much. Not in the same way. Not like this.

Finally, Kyle slumps back, body trembling from the exertion. His eyes are still closed, lashes casting long shadows over the high arcs of his cheekbones, mouth parting like something forbidden as he pants. Bruce reaches out with his clean hand, brushing his fingers over those long shadows, and Kyle presses into his grip, letting out a soft, tired sigh, nuzzling into his touch.

He doesn't open his eyes. Bruce is keenly aware of why, and he hates that he's thankful. If he were a better person—

If he were a better person, Kyle wouldn't be lying in his bed, looking rumpled and debauched in the shirt that Bruce had bought him. Pants and boxers pooled around his ankles, the glowing white edge of the plug still sticking out of him, making Bruce want, making him…

"Stop," Kyle says, cracking open his eyes, and Bruce looks away before he catches the glint of violet light.

"I'm not doing anything."

"I can hear you over-thinking." Irritability creeps into Kyle's tone, and he reaches up, tugging on Bruce's sweater. "Come here."

"When was the last time you slept?" Bruce asks, letting Kyle pull him down just enough that he can cage him in with his body.

Kyle frowns. "When was the last time _you_ slept?" he counters. His hands roam down, creeping under the edge of his sweater, and Bruce catches them, pressing them down on either side of his body. "Br _uce,"_ he whines, petulant. "You still haven't fucked me yet."

"I have to go patrol," Bruce says, ignoring the flash of genuine hurt crossing over Kyle's features.

"I can-"

"No." At Kyle's scowl, he sits up, pulling his hand away. "Go to sleep, Kyle."

"Stop," Kyle starts, and then he sighs. "Fine," he says, settling back into the bed. A yawn cracks his mouth open a moment after, and he turns his face, hiding it into the pillow, and Bruce knows he made the right call. "Just come back, okay?"

The white plug vanishes into thin air. Bruce does feel sorry that Kyle went through all that effort for nothing, but not enough to change his mind. He helps Kyle pull his pants off the rest of the way, and draws the blanket over him as Kyle struggles with his shirt, blinking down at the stains and making a mournful face. "Do you think it'll wash out?"

"I'll buy you another if it doesn't," Bruce tells him, and Kyle huffs and rolls his eyes.

"That's not – okay." A floating hand catches it when he lets go, dropping it into the hamper. "Right. You're Bruce Wayne."

Bruce almost asks him what he means by that, but he has a feeling he already knows. He reaches over, drawing the blanket over Kyle, and Kyle reaches out, grabbing him before he can pull away, drawing him in and kissing him, soft and chaste and sweet. "Be safe," he mumbles against his mouth, and Bruce wishes he was better. Wishes he could say the same things back to him, show the same open concern reflecting in his eyes.

Wishes he wasn't floundering with this. Wishes he had the first clue on what he thinks he's doing.

He doesn't answer, but Kyle's already falling back and closing his eyes. Curling in the blankets, around nothing, on a bed that looks so big and cold and lonely with just him there by himself.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "You think it's you," Kyle mumbles against his mouth. "You think it's something you did, but it's _not._ "

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> In my defense, I didn't know I was going to write a second chapter, either.

"Br'ce?"

Kyle's slurred voice calls out to him from the shadows, sleep-tinged and thick with exhaustion. Bruce pauses in the middle of his undressing, but then he continues, dropping the robe and pulling his sleep shirt on, mindful of the fresh gauze covering his shoulder.

He doesn't say anything, but he does move closer, lifting the blankets and climbing beneath them. Kyle makes a content sigh, curling into his chest, warm and pliant and smelling of him. Edges blurred somewhat in his tired haze as he creeps closer, wrapping himself around Bruce like he'd forgotten that he was mad at him earlier, or maybe he never was.

Anger doesn't tend to last long in him, and forgiveness comes easy. It's one of the myriad of reasons why Kyle is too good for him.

"Go back to sleep," Bruce says gruffly when he sees eyes peering up at him, glowing in the dim light. It's especially noticeable here, out in the outskirts of Gotham without the ambient light of the city spilling past the windows.

There's only Kyle. Kyle and his bright eyes and his skin lit from within, looking like some sort of god as he shifts on Bruce's bed. "Mm, okay," he says, and his eyes drop closed again, long lashes brushing over Bruce's neck as he lays his head there, hot breath washing over his pulse. "You're hurt," he mumbles, soft like a secret.

"I'm fine." And he is. Bruce had taken worse over the years. "Go to sleep."

Kyle blows out a long sigh, and Bruce can practically hear him weighing whether he should argue. They've had this argument before, in fact, Kyle pointing out that it's within his power, now, to heal his wounds, but Bruce doesn't know if he trusts Kyle when he says that it doesn't affect him. If nothing else, it does seem to at least sap some of his strength, and besides, it'll make it too easy.

None of this should be easy. And Bruce won't allow himself to take any shortcuts. Won't let himself get used to this. He's indulging Kyle right now, that's all. It's no different from the men at galas who sneak him discreet looks, the women wrapped in jewels and slinky cloth draping themselves over his arm.

He won't let himself get used to it, because when Kyle leaves—

"'m glad you're back," Kyle mumbles against his neck, still sounding sleep-dazed and tired. "I worry, you know."

"Kyle," Bruce sighs.

"I missed you." And his eyes are open again, blinking up at him from the vicinity of his jaw. Kyle pushes himself up, hovering over Bruce's body, and Bruce can't stop looking. His eyes are heavy, threatening to fall like boulders dangling over a cliff's edge. He's so tired, another long night of patrol dragging at his body, and he can't stop looking, tracing Kyle's neck down to the sharp edge of his clavicle, his still-naked body vanishing into the sheets, pressing against the cloth of Bruce's pajamas. "Are you—" Kyle's eyes dart down to his mouth. "How tired are you?"

And Bruce is exhausted, is the thing. Battered and bruised with his limbs aching already, soreness creeping in over his muscles. Mind muddled by the fog of exhaustion hazing over his thoughts, making the slip of time feel smooth and languid and slipping by too fast at the same time.

But that's not what Kyle is asking.

"Not particularly," he says, because there's still the too-bright haze of adrenaline painting over his eyes, making the world stand out in sharp focus even as his mind strains under the assuage of every new detail he takes in. It'll probably take at least an hour for it to wear off.

"Okay," Kyle says, his voice falling soft into the air between them. "Okay. Can I-" and he dips forward, his mouth hovering a hair-breadth above Bruce's own, air skating over his lips and then fading to nothing as Kyle holds his breath.

It's Bruce who closes the distance, tilting his head up and pressing their mouths together, and Kyle literally shivers above him, sucking in a startled inhale. And then he presses forward, opening his mouth, flicking his tongue against Bruce's lips and licking over his teeth, licking into his mouth, drinking him in like he's starving, like this is the only chance he'll get to ever kiss him.

It's – it's hard. Hard to remember that Bruce will lose him someday with Kyle kissing him like this, touching him like Bruce is the only thing he can ever want.

"Fuck," Kyle breathes when he pulls away, and Bruce can feel the heat of his flushed skin burning against him, the hot line of his cock pressing into his belly. Kyle sucks in a sharp breath, and then he pulls away, flopping down beside him. "Sorry," he says. "Sorry—ignore me."

"I don't mind," Bruce ways, and Kyle just laughs, pressing his face into his neck.

"Sorry," he says again. "You're probably exhausted. I just."

Bruce pulls him close, gathering him in his arms, ignoring the twinge in his shoulder as he shifts. "It's okay." He turns his head, speaking right into his ear, and Kyle shivers again, breathing out a soft sigh into the heavy night air.

"You're not making this easier," Kyle mumbles, and Bruce almost wishes he'd came back later to sunlight spilling in through the windows, falling over the blush that's undoubtedly blooming over Kyle's cheeks. "Fuck, Bruce. You know you're really hot, right?"

"I'd gathered," Bruce says drily, mouthing at his neck when Kyle tilts his head up. He takes Kyle's hand, dragging it between his own legs, and Kyle moans at the action, taking the hint and grabbing himself. And Bruce is too tired to… react, the way Kyle wants, the way they _both_ want, but the sound still sends warmth tingling through his blood. "It's okay," and his voice drops to a soothing whisper. "Take what you need."

Kyle makes this noise, this soft wrecked noise, curling his hand over his own cock and stroking, slow. "I can't," he pants. "Bruce, I want you to fuck me. I—"

"You don't need me to do that for you." Bruce grabs at the blanket, pulling it down, exposing more of Kyle's body to the cool night air. He pulls his hand back, skating his fingers over his hips, down the crack of his ass, and Kyle moans when Bruce brushes over the edge of his hole and then slowly works one finger in past that ring of muscle, finding him still slick and wet on the inside.

"Oh, God," Kyle breathes, his voice cracking, and his shivering hips push back into Bruce's hand. "Please, please, fuck me, fuck me—"

"Shh." Bruce pulls his finger out, grabbing one of Kyle's legs and pulling it up. "You can do it yourself. Can't you, Kyle?"

Kyle freezes for a moment, and then he gasps, arching his back and pressing into his touch. "Bruce," he moans. " _Bruce._ You're—" A white shaft of light plunges into his hole, and Kyle interrupts himself with a low, liquid moan, freezing and then melting against him, pliant. "I want – please—"

"Want what." Bruce's voice is gravelly, scratching out of his throat and landing like thunder, or at least it feels that way with the way Kyle twists and writhes in his grasp.

Kyle moans again, the sound burrowing under Bruce's chest like warm molten fire. Not quite arousal, but – close. Something that would be arousal on another day, if his limbs weren't aching, his brain swimming in a fuzzy fog. "Want you to fuck me," Kyle breathes as the construct inside him thickens, pulling out slow, so slow, lube gleaming over its smooth surface, catching at the ambient light. "Can't – can't stop thinking about it. _Ah._ Every time I try to sleep, I just – just imagine your cock splitting me open." He draws in a shuddering breath, twisting his face and nuzzling into Bruce's neck. "Leaves me a, _ah,_ g-goddamn wreck even when you're not there."

Bruce strokes his thumb over the back of Kyle's thigh, feeling Kyle's harsh pants batting against his jaw. "I'm sorry," he says. "I didn't mean to distract you."

Kyle gives a high, almost hysterical laugh, his rhythm faltering as his chest shakes, drawing attention to his hot skin, the dark points of his nipples standing stiff in the cool night air. "Of course you didn't," he says, and there's something in his tone, some disparaging lilt directed at either Bruce or him. "I just."

A tremor runs through his body like an earthquake, like Kyle is shaking apart beneath his hands, and Bruce grips him tighter like he's trying to hold him together. Like if he just holds him hard enough, he can prevent his scattered pieces from flying away. "I just want you so much," Kyle confesses, except he doesn't say it like it's a confession. Doesn't give it the weight that it should even when there's something fragile riding beneath his words, buoyed up by wind-blown dew twisting into ribbons of thin ice. "I want you, Bruce. I want _you._ You think—"

"Shh," Bruce murmurs, weak as always, kissing his cheek, his jaw, the corner of his mouth. He'd asked for it, but he still can't handle the spill of easy confession pouring out of Kyle's mouth, the way it makes his chest ache, makes longing bloom behind his teeth.

"You think it's you," Kyle mumbles against his mouth, and Bruce digs his nails into his thighs in warning. It only seems to spur him on, a moan spilling into the hot air between them, and Kyle presses back, twisting at an uncomfortable angle to press his teeth into Bruce's lip. "You think it's something you did, but it's not. It's _not._ God, you're so stupid sometimes, I want to." Their lips clash in a messy kiss. "Want to hit you. You think you did this? Why the hell would – you don't—"

Bruce kisses him again, the heat under his skin blooming into a surge of strength that will no doubt leave him even more sore in the morning. His shoulder is twinging, the bruises on his ribs screaming from his bent position. There's still grit in his teeth, plaster dust clinging to the edges of his mouth from when he had tossed himself into a crumbling building. And Kyle tastes like mint, tastes like the cool, vast expanse of a cloudless night. Tastes like something too distant for him to reach, too big for him to touch, and he's twisting back, kissing Bruce just as desperately like he's hungry for it, thirsty for his taste, like his mouth is the only thing he'll ever need.

"Stop feeling sorry," he gasps when Bruce pulls back, surging forward to capture his mouth again. Teeth scrape over his lips, tongue licking over them hot and slick and wet, and Bruce wants to chain him here, keep him tied to his bed forever. "You don't get to, a-asshole. _I'm_ the one who wants you, you don't – you don't get to be sorry, so stop…"

Almost without his conscious permission, Bruce finds his eyes walking down Kyle's body, to where the construct is driving in and out of him, now, thick and curved with ridges dimpling over its surface. Whatever Kyle was about to say next gets interrupted by a moan when Bruce takes his hand, guiding it off his cock.

"Can you come like this?" Bruce asks, even though he already knows the answer. He just—

"Yes," Kyle moans. "Yes, _yes._ Tell me – tell me to – Bruce, tell me—"

—he just wants to hear Kyle say it, that's all.

"I want you to," he says, his voice dropping to a soft whisper. "Let me see you."

"You _are."_ Kyle squeezes his hand, and then he drags it over his hip, over his taut, trembling stomach. "You are seeing me. Show you – show you whatever you want, if you'd just t- _tell me."_

His hand is so close to Kyle's cock, leaking and dripping onto his stomach, drooling down the line of his hip, making a sharp line for his eyes and his fingers and mouth to trace. And he had, on some other days, but for now… for now, Bruce just curls his fingers, digging his nails into Kyle's skin, and then he scratches up his belly, raking red lines onto his skin.

 _"Fuck."_ Kyle doesn't shout, but his voice breaks over the word, and he's whining, pressing his belly up into his fingers. "Again," and he's practically sobbing, clinging to Bruce in a death grip while slick sounds fill the room. "A-again, harder, do it harder, please, _please."_

"I don't want to hurt you," Bruce ways like it's a confession, rubbing his fingers over the raised welts blooming over his skin.

"Please," Kyle whines. "Don't care, don't care, make me bleed, Bruce, you can hurt me, please, I want it, do it again, Bruce, _do it."_

And he's helpless to the command in his tone, helpless to the sheer desperation pouring out with each scrambled word, and Bruce wonders how anyone can say no to him. If this is the power that let Kyle carry the whole corps on his shoulder, back when it was him and only him. Kyle doesn't know what he's asking. Kyle's handing his body, his pleasure over to him, and he doesn't know what he's asking –

Except he does. He _does._ Except Bruce can't tell himself that Kyle's fumbling earnestness is naivety or a weakness, not after all this time. Kyle can have him flat on his back in seconds if they were standing. Kyle can raze the world to the ground, and Bruce doesn't know if all the other Lanterns combined, if Superman himself can stop him.

Kyle is arching under his hands, pleading higher and higher, and Bruce digs his nails into the hot skin of his hip, drags them up to his belly, and Kyle comes with a strangled sob like it was forced out of him, hot splashes landing over his wrist, his arm, drenching his sweat-soaked shivering body and the silk sheets beneath him. He's moaning, soft huffs of air breaking against Bruce's mouth, and they trail off before he's even done coming, choking off into soft whimpers and then nothing. Just these breathy, shivering pants breaking against Bruce's skin, trailing long and then fading as Kyle seems to fade, too, drawing in one last, long breath and then slumping in Bruce's arms.

It's quiet, after. Bruce's cock is half-hard, but he pays it no mind, knowing it'll go away on its own. Carefully, Bruce leans over, taking a tissue from the nightstand and running it up Kyle's body, cleaning away his mess.

Kyle just grumbles, turning and then burying his face into Bruce's chest. His movements are languid and slow, weighed down with exhaustion, and he seems so vulnerable right now, caught right at the cusp of sleep. And Bruce feels that swoop in his gut, the one that's either fear or exhilaration, or both, drawing him in and warning him back at the same time.

It takes only a few minutes before Kyle's breaths are evening out, dropping back into the thick of sleep. Legs tangled with Bruce, fingers curled into the soft fabric of his sleep shirt, naked and alive and a warm solid weight curling into his side. And Bruce isn't used to this, not really, because Kyle is gone so often – not as much as before, but enough that his presence feels new every time.

There's a part of him that thinks he could, though. Could get used to it. Could get used to seeing Kyle's face blinking from beside him in the mornings, his hair sleep-mussed and frizzy, his eyes glazed over and soft.

It's a bad idea. Of course it is. Kyle is open and gregarious and gorgeous, and it's easy, so easy for people to love him. They live in different worlds. Move in different ways.

Sometimes, Bruce wants to hate Kyle for choosing to fixate on _him._

Beneath his skin, his heartbeat thrums beneath his ribcage, pounding a quick, staccato beat as he stares up at the ceiling. He closes his eyes, and he sees Kyle's body blazing behind his eyelids, shivering and gorgeous and slick with sweat.

 _I want you,_ he'd said. _You don't get to be sorry._ Bruce can still feel his skin, hot beneath his fingertips. The raised welts of his nails dragging over his belly. And Kyle had wanted it, he knows. Had literally begged for it. But—

_You don't get to be sorry._

If only it were that easy.


End file.
